


my god died young

by sapphi



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drugs, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Internalised Homophobia, Multi, Other tags to be added, Prostitution, Protective Siblings, Sort Of, and alcohol, biography, childhood and coming out of age, gilbert really is trying to be a good brother, he just sucks at it, identity crisis, if that makes sense, injuries, its not a phase social democracy is who i am, like coming into contact with it, ludwig trying to find himself, no communication we die like men, yea we're going there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2020-12-24 19:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21104819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphi/pseuds/sapphi
Summary: (They called him North German Confederation; they called him Germany and young one and one time they almost called him Holy Roman Em--)When he is born, Ludwig is thrown into a world of progress; a world of change and war and love and all the beautiful and cruel parts of a nation's life. He's handed a sword, a crown, but there's one thing that he has yet to find; himself.





	1. who rides so late in the night and the wind?

**Author's Note:**

> No free man needs a God; but was I free?

Screaming and crying were signs that a newborn was healthy. At least, with humans.  
  
When the boy woke up, he screamed not because he was healthy but because he felt like he was falling apart - like his skin and lungs and limbs weren't meant for each other, each trying to push the other away.   
  
He didn't hear it, or didn't remember it later, but the first words spoken in his live presence were: "Why did we do this if he's still no different from before? You've seen how 1815 went, Prussia."  
  
There were steps; confident, quick, like they had an aim in mind. Like they had no time to lose. The voice that then spoke was close enough to startle him, make him open his eyes for the first time, blinking away tears.  
  
"Because this time will be different."  
  


* * *

  
They called him North German Confederation; they called him Germany and young one and one time they almost called him Holy Roman Em--  
  
The man he had learnt was Prussia (or Gilbert, or big brother as he himself kept insisting) fixed it with a hard jab to the ribs of whoever said it.  
  


* * *

  
"Why don't I have a name?"  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"People don't just call you Prussia. You say your name is Gilbert when talking to messengers or when outside. What am I supposed to answer when they ask me?"  
  
Gilbert tilted his head, putting his book aside, something between a smile and smirk forming.   
  
"Ludwig."  
  
Later, much later, Gilbert would say that Ludwig was free to change it. That it wasn't uncommon. And Ludwig would never consider it.  
  


* * *

  
The pain was still constant. Sometimes it was worse and sometines not, but somehow four years after his birth, it started vanishing completely for short intervals. Because Gilbert took Ludwig to meetings, dismissing the other states' arguments that he was a child, that he acted and looked like a 7 years old human. Ludwig knew that this was because of a war.  
  
"The blood in your veins," Gilbert would say sometimes when he stayed awake with Ludwig, waiting through the pain that Ludwig no longer cried over because he'd learnt not to because Gilbert always looked at him like a stranger when he did. Anything to impress. "Is not only the veins of your people. It's also the blood you spill. You have to realise that. And you need to realise that this is necessary. This is how we live, Ludwig, it's how we're born and how we die. Creation and destruction and creation."   
  
A kiss to his forehead. Ludwig listened to every word attentively, often writing them down later. Journals upon journals of things he knew he'd need to learn. That, and he noticed a smile every time he asked his brother for a new journal, new ink.  
  
"Blood and iron. That's what'll stop making your body work against itself. You'll be strong and healthy."  
  
Ludwig decided to ask for a sword the very next day. He imagined the child Gilbert had been, all the wars and battles he had told about. A knight, not much older than himself, his grip firm and steady on the sword that's too big for him. He wears white, always, a brilliant pure white not stained by dirt or blood. His gaze is confident. He does not cry or hesitate. He is forever a child but forever eternal, an all-knowing omnipotent being, immortal. He will only die when the earth does too.  
  


* * *

  
Training was hard and straining; but it was with Gilbert once he came back from the war and once they were back from Versailles. Gilbert glowed with triumph, and Ludwig - Ludwig felt as if he should've felt just as triumphant but all he could care about was that the pain was reduced to the occasional headache or mysterious bruise or cold.   
  
When they were back and Gilbert handed Ludwig his sword, instructing him to show what he'd learnt from his teacher, Ludwig gave everything he could. His shoulders ached and his palms were sore afterwards, but.  
  
He was so sure he could see a hint of disappointment on Gilbert's face.  
  
"We will start over. Alright? Your posture needs fixing. Did he teach you defense?"  
  
He hadn't. But Ludwig nodded, straightening his back.  
  
"Good, that's great- I'll do a few basic attacks and you show me how far you've gotten." He picked up a wooden sword, holding it with both hands. "Ready?"  
  
A nod.  
  
The sword moved forward, like a stab, and Ludwig blocked it, shoved it away. It felt like an instinct, he knew that it probably was. Instincts and muscle memory. He knew that it also was enough to make Gilbert raise his eyebrows and smile.  
  
He raised his sword again without a pause, bringing it down. Of course, Ludwig blocked it. He expected another smile then, a chuckle, a "well done". But instead he saw Gilbert's eyes widen and his face looked death pale.  
  
"What? What is it?"  
  
The wooden sword hit the ground and Gilbert grabbed the hilt of Ludwig's.   
  
Realisation washed over him.  
  
His own sword wasn't made of wood. And it had been pressed down against his shoulder.  
  
"Gilbert-" He glanced down at the spreading red on his shirt. A different kind from the blood on scratched knees and elbows from falling down.  
  
"I'm sorry- Ludwig, I'm so sorry--" He removed the blade, throwing it far far away, his voice quiet and his movements frantic. He picked Ludwig up, bringing him into his room, washing the wound and putting a salb and bandage on it, acting as if Ludwig was about to die. It scared him. It terrified him, actually.   
  
"I'm fine."  
  
"You're injured- you're fucking injured, Christ--"  
  
Ludwig found it in himself to laugh. "You've never used swear words around me before."  
  
"I've never hu--" He stopped abruptly. In a second, he picked Ludwig up again, putting him down on the bed and tugging the blanket over him. Like with a child. Ludwig pushed it away a bit, slightly annoyed. He wasn't a child.  
  
(But he wanted to be.)  
  
"I'll read to you. And get you tea."  
  
For the rest of the evening it was Grimm stories and biscuits, warm sweet tea, and one more apology.  
  


* * *

  
The training stopped, at least for a while. Gilbert said it made more sense to focus on other things. He brought books, chess, tin soldiers, maps - one of them was a cheap one. In a moment of child-like humour, Gil scribbled the faces of other nations on it.  
  
"This is England. Arthur Kirkland. His hair looks like a bird nest and he's your typical old man stuck in a 20-something years old's body. If he attempts to talk to you about philosophy or his colonies, quickly exit the room unless you're in for a 30 minutes monologue."  
  
"Oh, you sound like you get along." They laughed. Gilbert made Arthur's eyebrows two sizes bigger.  
  
"Colonies are a waste of money. And he's suspicious of you. People think you're an extremely dangerous one, Ludwig. Watch out! The German Empire! Eight years of age but I swear he'll kill you! Anyway. This is France. Francis. Imaginative, isn't he? He's... nice, actually, but we're not on good terms, I suppose."  
  
"Sore loser?"  
  
"Aren't we all?"   
  
Ludwig, visibly surprised, looked at Gilbert, waiting for an explanation.  
  
"I- I didn't always win. But I got up. That's what matters. Oh, oh, you've met that one: Austria. Roderich Edelstein. I wish you could meet Hungary. Erzsebet. Maybe for your birthday."  
  
But Ludwig wasn't listening. The part about Gilbert admitting defeat had struck him.  
  


* * *

  
Things were great until they weren't. It was 1878 and an old Der Wahre Jakob newspaper was all it took. Gilbert was like warm water when content; and like fire when furious. He was quick to check everywhere and found more than a newspaper.  
  
"What were you _thinking_-"  
  
"Let me explain!"  
  
"Oh, I don't need an explanation. I know damn well what happened. You went and bought this- socialist bullshit."  
  
"It's not--" But Ludwig's protests were cut off again.  
  
"You realise they're our enemy? Your enemy?! We are doing everything in our power to keep this country- to keep _you_ safe from these revolutionaries. And this is how you thank us?"  
  
"They have good points! In the Ruhr, in the cities, there's--"  
  
"I am so disappointed in you." Cold, hard, like ice. Like metal. It felt like a stab. Ludwig wanted to say something - a _what_ or _you don't get it_ or _I was just curious._ He didn't. He waited, staring at Gilbert.  
  
"You will burn this. All of this. No word to anyone. Understood?"  
  
He understood.   
  


* * *

  
Months passed but his aging didn't slow down - it even seemed faster than a human's. Mr Austria and Mrs Hungary, or Mr and Mrs Austria-Hungary, commented on it in passing with a look of pity.   
  
"Shame you don't get to be a child for decades. At least a few. I know it was awful when we ourselves were children, but now - the same things that make childhood such a safe time now also make you grow faster. Shame."  
  
Her husband and Prussia looked at each other knowingly. They had someone in mind who had gotten centuries of childhood at a cost. Ludwig knew this. He had found enough old maps, history books. And had heard Gilbert mumble to him drunkenly one time, a sad smile on his lips. _I miss you, Karlchen. _Ludwig after that hadn't talked to Gilbert for a week. Gilbert never asked why. He knew. Everyone in all of Europe knew that Ludwig's body was second hand. Like looking at a ghost, a state had whispered once, thinking Ludwig wouldn't hear.   
  
Not that he ever told anyone, but Ludwig hated the empire that came before him, hated him for dying. A few days after the visit he stolen wine from Gilbert, emptied it, and talked to his reflection in the bathroom mirror.   
  
"I have to make up for your weakness. Every day. Every day of my life."  
  
_Like you aren't weak yourself._  
  
"Well, I didn't die. I'm alive."  
  
_I'm not dead. Not really. You're my copy, and you won't ever escape that. You will always be the second empire in everyone's eyes. The second brother. Never your own body or spirit._  
  
"I'm not a second--"  
  
_Second place. Always. Gilbert only ever likes you when you act like me, have you noticed? You will never be anything but my ghost, and that's the only way you'll be liked--"_  
  
The reflection cracked and shattered with Ludwig's punch, but that wasn't enough. He punched again; right hand, right hand, left hand, both. So nothing but dust would remain. His screams and yells pierced the air, _I hate you I hate you I hate you leave me alone you're dead_, every punch smearing the shards with blood. His blood. His pain. Only his, nobody else's.  
  
He wasn't sure when Gilbert came, how much he'd heard, but eventually he pulled him away and grabbed his fists, held him tight until Ludwig stopped kicking and his screams melted into sobs.  
  


* * *

  
(A few days later, when Gilbert still hadn't mentioned the incident and still acted strange, Ludwig decided to sneak into his room. The journal was easily found, bare, and it would be so easy to read it. Gilbert's thoughts and opinions all laid in front of him.  
  
Maybe it was fear of what he would find. Maybe it was respect - for his brother or for himself. But Ludwig put the journal back, unread.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical dates and other notes:
> 
> 1815: The beginning of the German Confederation, replacing the previously dissolved Holy Roman Empire. As it was still loose, I'd imagine that HRE wouldn't feel exactly healthy while being its personification.
> 
> 1866/67: The actual start of this fic. The North German Confederation is still loose, but smaller and having a bit more sense of unity after the first two unification wars. What Gilbert is referring to when he says that this time will be different is, basically, the unification through wars and Bismarck's unification of Germany - it's also not like 1848, when instead of the king, the national-liberal movement almost created a unified Germany. And failed because a unification from "below" ("crown from the gutter") probably didn't sound so nice to the Prussian king.
> 
> Ludwig: The German version of Louis. Gilbert chose this name because of the numerous Louis from France, specifically Charles Louis Napoléon Bonaparte, at the time the head of state in France. It's more a joke and a "warning" that Ludwig will become important, hence why Gilbert later feels guilty and suggests that he can change it.
> 
> Blood and iron: Bismarck believed that Germany could only be unified through wars, so, blood and iron. The Franco-German war 1870/71 was the last unification war and pretty much served its purpose by giving people one enemy and showing that States Together Strong. Maybe unifying people by making them hate someone wasn't the best way to go, but that's Bismarck for you.
> 
> Versailles: The German Empire was declared in Versailles because sometimes you just have to be that extra. The following conditions France faced were... not so great. They lost a lot of money; which also helped the industrialisation in Germany and accordingly would make Ludwig feel stronger. Also, in case you're wondering whether this is related to the Treaty of Versailles: yes. All of that.
> 
> The sword-fighting, maps, tin soldiers and chess: The military was big in Germany. Kids would wear uniforms on Sundays or on photos. Being in the military often was connected to having a higher social status, so Ludwig would be expected to adapt to that as soon as possible.
> 
> Colonies: Bismarck, again. After three wars countries started getting a bit suspicious so he had to convince them that Germany wasn't interested in further expansion; colonies would only make Gernany seem aggressive. That, and colonies to him would be a waste of money if badly executed.
> 
> 1878 and Der Wahre Jakob: Socialists and Social Democrats. Bismarck hated them. Methods of pushing against them reached from giving people insurances to making Social Democratic papers and meetings illegal in 1878 to 1890. It didn't help very much.
> 
> Who rides so late in the night and the wind?: The Erlking is a poem by Goethe that describes a father trying to reach home before his son dies in his arms. The reason this chapter has the title is that Ludwig is, at least in the beginning, still young and fragile. Gilbert, like the father in the poem, tries to reach safety before he's out of time. He, like the father in the poem, tries to keep Ludwig safe and warm. Which sort of shows in the bit where he tells Ludwig to burn his newspapers; in Gilbert's opinion, he's only keeping Ludwig away from dangerous thoughts, much like the father in the poem tells the child to not listen to what the Erlking offers him for his life. It's kind of a conflict of Gilbert's throughout this chapter: is it better to keep him "safe" and healthy or to not hurt him?
> 
> The title of this fic as well as the note at the beginning is taken from Pale Fire.


	2. blessed be the boys time can't capture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fall to your knees,  
bring on the rapture

Secrecy, as Ludwig learnt, was quite common in diplomacy.  
  


The first meeting he attended was in a village at the border between his country, Austria-Hungary and Italy.

(And he'd rather have experienced the Congress of Berlin like Gilbert had suggested, but he'd been too young. Gilbert had caused a scene, insisting that the idea wasn't that Ludwig would do much more than learn how alliances and negotiations worked -- the compromise that he and the chancellor found had been, to Gilbert's disappointment, that Ludwig could instead spend the month learning about inner policies.

Ludwig by now didn't remember a thing of what he'd been supposed to learn.)

It was a lot less spectacular than he'd hoped for. Gilbert wasn't there, and Ludwig soom discovered that if there was anything he liked less than strangers it was talking to strangers. There was only so much tiring small talk you could have with the cook before you ran out of topics. And there weren't many parties involved. And as awkward it was to meet new people, Ludwig actually liked the prospect of seeing empires face to face after only being able to hear from them.

But what bugged Ludwig the most was that the meeting wasn't a turbulent living thing. (It was... not boring, no, but there was no discussing. The place they met in was the summer residence of Austria and Hungary. It made the disguise of a non formal meeting even more believable, but it also took away some of the thrill.) 

The purpose was simply a symbolic finality of the agreement. Perhaps it was tradition. Austria, Hungary, he and Italy read the points included in the alliance, they cleared a few minor questions, and that was it. Twenty minutes. It took twenty minutes and Ludwig wondered if maybe he'd put his expectations too high.

Until Austria looked at Italy with a cold expression, and Italy rolled his eyes, and Austria did something that most likely was less a national but a personal affair.

"I can't believe you have the audacity to come into our house and roll your eyes at me."

Italy stuck out his tongue; Ludwig, a stranger to this level of impoliteness, almost gasped in shock. "Who do you think you are, my dad? I don't owe you shit respect when you never respected _me._" It was strange to hear Italy say that. He wasn't soft spoken, and he very audibly wasn't a boy anymore, but to Ludwig it was unexpected that he would use such words.

"Feliciano, that's not--"

"Don't call me Feliciano! Ugh." He ran a hand through his hair. Which. Admittedly made him look pretty nice, really, Ludwig had always liked when boys had slightly messy hair, and Feliciano just could pull off that look. "I'm Italy. Got it? _Italy_. It's not that hard!"

"Italy, he didn't mean it that way," Erzsebet's voice was different; warm, not fast like usually. It was patient. "We haven't seen you in so long, Roderich is just a little sore."

Roderich's voice protested, "I'm not--"

But he was cut off by Erzsebet giving his shin a kick under the table. No wonder Gilbert got along with her, Ludwig thought. "We miss you. As person. You didn't have to cut contacts."

Ludwig, he felt like this was becoming a bit too personal. And Feliciano looked like he was about to throw the nearest vase or item of furniture. His suspicion was proven right when Feliciano stood up, so abrupt that his chair fell backwards, and slammed his hands on the table. "That was personal! You can't refuse to at least try to help and then act like we're a happy nice pseudo family! I _fought_ to be my own country, and you expect me to say nothing when he-" he pointed an angry finger in Roderich's direction "-refuses to call me by my nation's name?!"

At this point, Ludwig sunk into his chair, wondering when a good moment to leave the room would show up. The question cleared when Italy left the room, angry and kicking the door open on his way, and Erzsebet looked at Roderich and then Ludwig. "Maybe you should go after him; I think you might be better at calming him down." He could see that her real suggestion was that he should leave her and her husband alone for a bit. Which was more than okay with him.

When he left and went upstairs (faster and more relieved than what would've been polite), instead of a welcome silence there was Feliciano, on the carpet, lying there and staring up at the ceiling. 

  
"Um. Sorry, I'll just--" 

  
"No. Stay here." Feliciano's voice sounded different now. There was no fury, it was quieter and, well, still not calm. Melancholic was a better word. Tired. Ludwig sat down next to him on the carpet and prayed that the nation wouldn't start crying.

  
Luckily, Feliciano instead got out a little container. Ludwig thought he was going to smoke when Feliciano opened it, revealing a white powder. "Want some?"

  
"Some... sugar...?"

  
There was a laugh. "God. Didn't one of your people figure out how to extract cocaine?"

  
"Cocaine?"

"Oh, _god_. It's. It's like morphium. You know morphium, right? Opium? That sort of stuff?" Ludwig nodded. "Well, this is like that."

"Aren't those really addictive..."

  
"Uh, yea? That's why this one is better." Usually Ludwig would've said no, but he did feel curious and his brother was in an other country. And it felt thrilling, in a way, to have a secret on his own -- a memory only for him -- a small piece of teenage disobedience. He took some.

It was pretty nice. Listening to Feliciano, who now had a _lot_ to say, didn't drain him, and he became a bit talkative too. And happy. Giddy. And maybe it was the drug but Ludwig doubted it. It was more than that, it was the sharing of a moment, a secret hid behind smiles.

"Ludwig," Feliciano eventually said, pointing a finger up at the ceiling as if he was declaring something of immeasurable importance, "you are a nice guy."

The next day he felt like the day after he got drunk, except worse. But those words were a warm comfort, a clear and potent memory that made Ludwig feel like _someone._

  


* * *

  
With a secret on his hands again after three years, it felt like he was growing addicted to it once more. He started keeping more, hoarding them, always with the thought that this time he wouldn't get caught. This time he had a reason to keep them. They were part of him. With every forbidden glass of wine, with every night where he climbed from his window, falling into the pitch black night just to _look_, he felt like he was discovering himself. Piece by piece. Building himself all new, all his. 

Berlin was so pretty at night.

A whirlwind of lights and people, and even though he'd lost enough money to buy a new jacket with, he couldn't get enough of it. He'd sit on benches at the edge of a park, watching people stream from one street to another, inside bars or out of him, or hurriedly walking through streets. Laughing, whistling, catching their breath.

He swore himself he'd be like them someday. Carefree and bold. Yet he couldn't get himself to follow them into those buildings that burst with music and chatter. Not now, at least.

* * *

  
Someone joined him on the bench one chilly night. The person wasn't much older than Ludwig. He was like the night itself, black hair and eyes that looked like they had flecks of light in them, and Ludwig felt his cheeks heat up. A reaction he'd been getting often these days. A glimpse of a young guard, a tailor's apprentice's brush against his hand, and it made Ludwig stop his breathing.

The boy -- man -- whatever Ludwig could call him -- looked at him in curiosity, watching as Ludwig averted his eyes. He opened his mouth and closed it, once, twice. Minutes passed.

"You're here every night."

"Do you have a problem with it?" Ludwig had heard people use those words to shut others up. With him, it sounded like a genuine question. An apology, maybe.

He laughed. "You weren't last night. I _did_ have a problem with that. I thought you'd gotten hurt -- sitting out here alone." Then he gazed at Ludwig's clothes again, thinking. "I thought you might've been working, but I've never seen you leave with someone, and you look well-off."

"Working?"

"Yea, well, if you saw a guy waiting in the middle of the night every night, just looking at people, what would you think?" He didn't wait for a reply. Ludwig was glad; he didn't have one except for confused silence. "That he's looking for customers. Or that he's a sad fuck but you don't look sad, or drunk, or- or anything."

"You mean to say I look like a prostitute?"

"I mean- yes. Yea. I don't mean that as an insult."

"Are you one?"

A wink. "Yea." There was another pause. Ludwig didn't really know what to do with that knowledge. "What's your name?"

"Ludwig."

"Pretty. I'm August. Do you have money, Ludwig?"

He reached into the pocket of his jacket where he kept some money. He didn't know for what exactly. It wasn't like Ludwig used the train or tram to get home, or like he bought anything. "Yea."

"Do you want?"

"Want what?"

August leaned in. Face close to Ludwig's, in fact so close that he felt his breath and saw the little details in his eyes. "Me."

That did it for Ludwig. He stood up, too fast, cheeks red and eyes wide. He took a step back. Another. "I'm... I'm sorry--" And he was; he really was, he wanted to stay longer, he wanted to talk to this mysterious new boy, but his body sent a clear message: run.

* * *

  
Ludwig didn't come back the next day. Or the one after. He wasn't sure what he was so scared of; he wasn't afraid of August, or other people for that matter. But for a week every night when he was just about to climb out of his bedroom window, his legs felt like they were made of stone, so he stayed up for hours with his hands on the window frame and his eyes fixed on one spot.

He thought about him every day, to make it worse; when he got dressed, at breakfast, his language and history lessons (the only lessons where he could afford to zone out, because the teacher was a soliloquy kind of talker), and so on. And like an infection, the thoughts spread to things that actually required Ludwig's attention. He became clumsy, feeling like a character from that god awful Struwwelpeter book Gilbert had read to him years ago.

(Surprisingly, tales about children starving and getting their thumbs cut off or burning alive were fine with Gilbert's consciousness, but every time a visitor tried asking whether Ludwig was in _that phase _of boyhood yet, Gilbert became a squirmy overprotective mess.

Ludwig was 17 by now, in human terms. It hadn't changed. Worse yet, his growth was coming to a halt, as if his own body was betraying him and wanted to give Gilbert more of a reason to treat him like a child. No, Ludwig didn't feel crushed or embarrassed, thank you very much.)

* * *

  
Growing up. Trading the short trousers for long ones, his Sunday navy uniform for suits, growing, growing.

Did he want to grow up, to be like an adult? Or was it the wish to be treated as one? Ludwig wasn't sure. He clung to his precious years of youth and pushed them away at the same time.

His inexperience left him feeling small, a puppy amongst all those grown up nations. Centuries between them. A wide, deep river, his exasperated smoke signals all blurry on the other side of it.

* * *

  
A few months later, Ludwig had entered _that phase of boyhood_ with a dream that made him wake up sweaty and panting. And with the knowledge what he had been running away from, because now he had seen it eye to eye. A boy's embrace and kiss.

He tried recalling whether anyone he'd ever met had mentiomed it in passing, strange thoughts, not platonic. None of them had. Girls, it had always been girls they had warned him about and told him about. His brother didn't count because he avoided the topic of love and desire altogether, making him an unapproachable entity in regards to questions about that matter. There wasn't anyone to ask. 

Thinking about his nation's criminal code and the lack of talk revolving around these feelings, Ludwig came to the realisation that perhaps it was better not to ask anyone. 

* * *

  
Silence became shame became disgust. Repeat. Multiply. Dig the hole, the grave, until your shovel clangs at the contact of the stoney realisation. Ludwig didn't want love. He ceased to want it; the thought of embraces and kisses became a repulsive thing, he grew confident that he wasn't worthy of any kind of love at all. 

His birthday was torture. Like escaping a plague, Ludwig decided to climb out of the window again, not taking the old route and heading into the opposite direction, avoiding the people who seemed like they were celebrating. He wondered if it was presumptuous to say they were celebrating his birthday, in a way. People who didn't know their nation existed in such a form; who would want to imagine it as a graceful woman with long waves of hair and all the assertiveness that he himself didn't have. 

* * *

  
The next meeting Ludwig went to was, incidentally, a secret just like the first one. Except this time there was no Venice but Russia. A meeting of three empires. And quite noisy when two of those empires had two representatives each. 

He was glad that Gilbert came with him this time. Surprisingly, he didn't get into any sort of discussion; Russia and Austria did that by themselves, and Eliza, Gilbert and he were left to roll their eyes. Ludwig that day noticed that Eliza had a habit of including at least one foul word a sentence when she was tired. He also learnt exactly 28 Hungarian swear words and insults before she, giving a groan, threw a pillow that flew through the gap between the bickering nations. "It's settled! Jesus! If I hear the word Balkan one more time I'll commit arson!"

Just when Ludwig thought it would be improper to smile at that statement, he heard Gilbert give a full-blown laugh. He even hit the couch pillow a few times before calming down, leaning back and looking at Eliza like she was Victoria (replace the robe with a uniform, spear with a sword) and he a soldier telling himself he would return soon. Every day. Ludwig felt like he'd seen something he shouldn't have in Gilbert's eyes. 

* * *

  
The old emperor died. The new one followed after one day short of one hundred, leaving behind his wife, a few attempts at liberal changes in laws, and a son that hated him.

"The name Frederick brings bad luck," Gilbert said the day of the funeral, when they were back home, and Ludwig knew he didn't mean this one incident. "Do you know why I'm your brother and not your father?"

"Because you don't want to feel old?" An attempt of a joke.

"Bullshit. It's because almost every damn time in this household that there's a king and prince, there's resentment, and distrust, and by the end of their lives it's all gone to shit. But not us. We're not like that. We're different, we're equal. And we won't fuck up. And when I die--"

"_If_ you die."

Gilbert looked straight ahead for a second, then closed his eyes. "Are you ever scared?"

"Of what?"

"Of death."

"Which one?"

"Both," he replied without a moment's thought.

It was a strange question. Ludwig looked at the ceiling of the room, frowning, wondering what Gilbert's answer would be and whether he would answer at all if asked. "I haven't given much thought to it."

"The first time you'll be at war, it'll be all you can think of."

"I thought you liked it. War. Going to battle." Bringing home glory and smiles, entering with cheers. 

"I accept it. It's something you learn with time."

* * *

  
(Acceptance. Death. King, prince, succession. Dissolution. Disappearance. Perhaps there was another reason Gilbert didn't want to take the role of the Old and instead placed them on equal footing.)

* * *

  
The emperor changed and so did the times. Years passed fast; they weren't uneventful. Colonies, a marine, weaponry. Bismarck leaving. Socialist papers not being incriminating anymore. A new century came, then a new decade. And he felt strong, even grew an inch, he felt everything growing. Industry and military. Which he was amazed by -- crafting things and creating them, having this organized and orderly strength. The talk was all about dangers that he wilfully ignored. He heard the words preventive war and shrugged; what was there to fear? What was there to justify? He needed a purpose and distraction and searched for it everywhere he could.

Ludwig studied engineering in Berlin, law in Göttingen, and later brought home several stray dogs one day that he tried to hide without success. 

"What. Is that."

"Adolescent aggression." Ludwig attempted to cover the ruined pillow and mattress with the even more ruined blanket. Torn and covered in dog mouth sized bites. Scratches on the furniture. He prayed that Gilbert wouldn't check the wardrobe. 

"Ah." Gilbert said in a doubtful but amused tone. "I thought you just had rabies."

"No. Uh. I got home and thought. Fuck adults, right? And, uh, took a dagger and just. You know. Stabbed the bed?"

"Aha." Gilbert looked under the bed, stood up again when he found nothing. "Totally get that. I stabbed my bed too when I was your age."

"You mean to say beds were invented by then? Crazy." His eyes flicked to the wardrobe, subconsciously, accidentally. And Gilbert noticed. He went to it, Ludwig threw a well aimed pillow at him that Gilbert ducked from. When he opened the closet, it creaked and three dogs sprung out, running around the room. Shit. "Why didn't you just tell?"

"I _wanted_ to- but then I came home today and saw this--" he gestured at the mess, frustrated because nothing ever went like he planned it, "--and I thought you wouldn't allow it!"

There was that laugh again, Gilbert trying to catch one of the dogs to pet it, and Ludwig wondered if it was this simple. He cracked. Laughed. Who cared about the furniture, or whether someone would hear them and think they were crazy, both of them, no more mature than children? What did it matter that Ludwig thought about men, or that his nation was isolated, or that the emperor had replaced his advisors with ones that wanted a war because of petty accusations?

It was fine. It would be fine. It would be light, and glorious, it would be the sun rising and enveloping everything.

The Austrian archduke was shot the following month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Congress of Berlin: You know Bismarck? He negotiated treaties of all sorts in, but this congress was big. It temporarily "fixed" the Balkan crisis in 1878, and accordingly was huge; importance and size and time wise. It also markef the end of the treaty with Russia and Austria-Hungary, though.
> 
> Triple Alliance: 1882, the time when this chapter starts. The Triple Alliance was an upgrade to the alliance between Gernany and Austria-Hungary - and it was secret. Italy joined it in hope of expanding, colony-wise, and another aim was to make relations between Italy and Austria-Hungary less tense after the former gained independence. Romania joined the alliance a year later.
> 
> Cocaine: It was seen as a better alternative to opium. With that I mean it was used to treat addicts. Fun fact: Bismarck was very into morphium.
> 
> Prostitution: Male prostitutes existed, not only in a gay context, though this time wasn't the height of it -- conditions weren't great. There's this interesting report, an interview with a gay prostitute. 
> 
> Essentially, he was offered more money by a man if he were to do something more rough. It's interesting because he said that the whole time, he thought of the money; and in the end didn't get the promised amount. 
> 
> There was this part where he looked at himself in the mirror, and in a contrast to before, felt like his body was blemished. He beat up a female prostitute. The book said it really showed the hierarchy; and a need for power. 
> 
> Struwwelpeter: A psychologist (!) decided to write a collection of children's stories, reaching from a girl who played with matches and thus burned alive to a boy who beat his maid, ripped flies' wings out and in the end was badly injured by a dog. Max and Moritz is like that too. Two prankster boys harming people and animals and in the end being almost baked, but then ground into corns. Which the villagers welcome.
> 
> Homosexuality and the criminal code: To put it short, male on male sex was illegal, but regions often interpreted it different from the Correct Prussian Way. Which was, by the way, that it wasn't gay if it didn't look like straight sex, or if clothes were kept on.
> 
> Germania: As in the artistic representation of Germany. There was, and still is!, another one. The German Michel. He's shown with a hat people wore to bed, which represented that Germany "overslept" the whole revolution thing.
> 
> Three Emperors Alliance: Not sure if it's called that in English. It was a continuation of the agreement that broke earlier (see Congress of Berlin), started in 1881 and was continued in 1884, despite tensions between Austria-Hungary and Russia over the Balkans. It was the last time, though. It again was secret, but this time a neutrality agreement, not a defensive one.
> 
> The German Emperors: After William I's death; Frederick III only stayed alive for 99 days. He was pretty liberal, compared to his father and son.
> 
> Gilbert, when saying the name brings bad luck, refers to Frederick I and II of Prussia. 
> 
> Strained relations between father and son, or something of that sort, are a reoccuring thing in the family. Iron Kingdom has a whole chapter dedicated to it -- a chainreaction of messy father-son relationships, mistrust and resentment and all that fun. 
> 
> When I die: Yea this is Iron Kingdom again. I loved one quote in particular- Germany was Prussia's undoing.
> 
> I thought you liked war: It was heavily romanticized back in the days. Made out to be something noble.
> 
> The new century: The socialist laws were removed after Bismarck left, and a new way of colonial policy started. The beginning of the arms race did too. There were attempts to limit it, but Germany vetoed against it.
> 
> Preventive war: This was actually a very publically discussed thing. The idea was that Germany should go to war before its potential enemies became strong enough to win a war. Really, tensions were high, you could consider the archduke's death an excuse to start the war. 
> 
> Isolated: Bismarck's absence meant that the emperor dropped treaties and alliances, except for Austria-Hungary. It's ironic - first France isolatec and Germany in the centre, then the other way around.
> 
> Petty accusations: The Harden-Eulenburg-Affair. An advisor of William's was accused of homosexuality, starting a chain of accusations. It was a political move to remove William II's advisors. Something Harden would regret later. Those advisors that left because of the stigma were the ones opposing a war; without them, the path to war was easier.


	3. interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reupload because i couldn't figure how to fix the notes situation on the first chapter - sorry.
> 
> this wasn't planned to be part of the fic and it has gruesome/morbid descriptions so warning for that ! feel free to pass as it's a more spontaneous and not researched thing i might delete later.

His dreams were of knights with silver-gold armor, heavy swords, horses with long hair. His dreams were of Napoleonic attire (and tents, elegant robes, honour) and failsafe strategy. His dreams even were of the fairly modern cannons from fifty years ago with all of its quickness and newness.  
  
Ludwig adored, worshiped technology and advancement, from the railway and steam machines in the factories (he had stopped thinking of the people in them; they were gears, and anyway better off these days, the emperor being generous with allowing parties) to the opioid painkillers.   
  
Anything but that would be ridiculous, after all; kings cannot command stagnation. Gunpowder will develop the same way as textiles do.   
  
Why, then, avoid battle? What better way to break new things to the world? They couldn't afford to postpone the inevitable.  
  
Which also was why Ludwig one night, against his brother's orders, went away from home to enlist before him. What a pleasant surprise it would be if Gilbert came too a week later to find cavalier Ludwig completely calm at the front, and Ludwig would be the one to show him around the tents and fields, and he would say _I told you I am old enough. I no longer need protection. You taught me everything I need to know_.  
  


—   
  


Ludwig, raised on toy soldiers and war games and military strategy books. Ludwig, growing so fast that he was tearing at the seams of his body, lightning on his body. Ludwig, waking up to the smell of rotting flesh.  
  
He stood up with difficulty, pushing away limbs, moving through a haze. 1914. 1915? Gilbert had sent him a letter last month– had he replied to it yet? He remembered that it hadn't been furious, which would strike him as odd for a reason he did not yet comprehend. Ludwig raised his hand to his cheek to scratch it, noticing that there was neither hand nor cheek. He raised his arm higher. No. He moved his other hand to it and felt teeth and a lone muscle.  
  
It was quiet and dark but Ludwig saw a man nearing him, gun pointed, eyes wide. Do not fear. The soldier opened his mouth._  
  
I can't hear you._ Except Ludwig couldn't hear himself either. He pressed a hand to his own face, _I'm fine, _and continued walking.

—  
  


He understood now, vaguely. Not all of it. But the eyes of other soldiers were on him now constantly as he healed. (A higher up went to him one day, composed, and told him that he knew. That Ludwig's brother – the word carried a hint of awe, disbelief – had written a letter as soon as he found out where Ludwig had went. "He told me to take care," the man finished, his tone strange. Thoughts lived and died on his tongue for two seconds before he left again.)  
  
Even after he did and the rumours were muted, the new ones would look at him oddly. Ludwig wondered if that was why August had talked to him, and for a reason that he buried as soon as it surfaced, it made him ache.  
  


—  
  


Ludwig's memories returned to him in fragments. He preferred when they didn't.  
  
It took him weeks to read Gilbert's letter, and during that time more came in. His rucksack was half full of them, from 1914 to 1916, heavy papers with lectures.  
  
1914 was _what the hell do you think you are doing, _it was _stupid, naive, you don't know shit_. 1915 was _go back,_ over and over, in a commanding tone, a harsh tone, any tone Gilbert could muster up. It had gruesome descriptions that Ludwig knew were meant to scare him off. _If you are waiting for admiration or for me to be proud of you for being this reckless, you will have to wait till you rot._ And by 1916, it was almost pleading, in Gilbert's own way.  
  
Not once was there anything about Ludwig fighting for his people, anything about an offer to come to Gilbert, any understanding or fear on Gilbert's side. Gilbert; older brother, experienced one, the hero, the strategist, the picture perfect man on postcards, hidden on paintings. And Ludwig; the child who would never reach high enough to grasp a crown.  
  
Sometimes all Ludwig wanted was to outgrow him or, if he couldn't, bring Gilbert down to his level in a fight, to see realisation pierce him and hear admission of any sort.  
  
Until then, all he would allow himself to do out of spite was to neatly fold the weekly to monthly letter, pack it to the others, and wait for his turn to run towards sweet, promising martyrdom.


End file.
